Polanski shook his head and sighed. “What did you offer him?”
“Same as the rest. I said we would cover the cost of additional time his men would work and also pay a five percent bonus on final bill.”
“What did he say?”
“He flat out refused. He said that he ran a tight ship and they didn’t have the capacity to do it. He said he had a limited number of guys, which meant a fixed amount of man-hours and, in order to bring it forward, his men would need to work around the clock. Evenings, nights and weekends. Even Thanksgiving and a few Sundays. He said, as a Christian, he wasn’t prepared to ask them to do that. He wasn’t prepared to have them work like dogs. And certainly not on Sundays.”
Polanski shook his head, again. He needed to get hands-on with this one. And he knew it. “Call him and set a meet. Tell him I’m coming down to the site. It’s time to turn to more…persuasive means. I’ll be there within the hour. Meet me there,” he said and ended the call.
SIXTEEN
Arshavin, Salenko and Zurawski pulled off Orleans Street and into the parking lot of the Lafayette Tower apartments in the black Chevy Impala. Arshavin was in the driving seat with Salenko sitting to his right in the front and Zurawski in the back. He was doing that thing that all backseat drivers do. He was sitting on the middle seat, staring out through the front windshield.
"Apartment five-E, boys," Arshavin hissed as he nosed the Impala into a slot in the middle of the row two back from the entrance. "Let's be rough. And thorough."
Salenko and Zurawski nodded their heads and muttered agreeable grunts.
Bringing the Impala to a halt, to a light metallic clanking sound that came from somewhere the back, Arshavin applied the parking brake and unbuckled his belt, then glanced up at Zurawski's reflection in the rear view mirror and nodded once.
Zurawski leaned over to his right in the back and opened up a black steel tool box that was lying on the floor of the car in front of the back right passenger's seat. He lifted out three black crowbars and passed them around, handing one to Salenko, the other to Arshavin and keeping one for himself.
They each raised them up into the air over the center console and clanked them together with a loud clang, then stuffed them inside their jackets. Out of sight from any onlookers who might see them when entering the building.
Arshavin, then, killed the Impala's engine and drew the key from its slot and led the men outside to the cold and snowy parking lot.
They walked up the same salted footpath that Naomi had walked down maybe only an hour before them, exhaling warm white clouds of breath into the icy winter air. Then, one by one, they entered the building through the revolving glass door.
They glanced around. The lobby was empty. A white marble floor stretched wall to wall. There were a couple of cream leather sofas and a glass coffee table off to the right, two polished steel elevators up ahead with a couple of spiky-looking dragon trees on either side in white china pots, and a white marble reception desk on the left. There was a black leather swivel chair behind it. The chair was adrift from the desk, as if somebody had rolled backward and stood up in a hurry. But there was no sign of who it would've been. There were no signs of anyone.
They saw the elevators up ahead and walked toward them. Salenko pushed the button for level five and the doors pinged open. They stepped inside and rode the elevator cart up five floors.
Stopping at the fifth floor, the elevator’s bell pinged and the doors slid open. Arshavin stepped out into the corridor. He glanced left and right, then turned around, seeing no signs of anybody. There was nothing but a thick charcoal grey carpet under foot, white walls lined with a few grey and yellow abstract art canvasses on either side, and a line of recessed cool white spotlights shining down from above. He waved Salenko and Zurawski to follow him out.
They did.
The three men, then, walked down the corridor in a triangular formation, Arshavin at the tip, Salenko and Zurawski behind him at either side. They walked with purpose, their eyes fixed on the mahogany wooden door to apartment 5E up ahead on the right, almost like they were burning a hole through the wood.
Arshavin turned his head and nodded, an anarchic look in his eyes, and drew his crowbar from his jacket. He undid the zip and the black twenty-four-inch hooked iron bar slipped out into his right hand.
Salenko and Zurawski did the same.
Arshavin glanced back up and down the corridor and grinned. Still no sign of any would-be witnesses. He wedged the chisel end of the crowbar in between the door frame and the lock of the door, jammed it in tight and pushed the swan end of the crowbar away from the door.
The wood cracked, instantly. The frame stood no chance. Not against the force of lock's latch bolt being forced backward by the crowbar with the pressure and weight of Arshavin pushing behind it. The latch bolt and strike plate broke through the wood and the door slipped open into the apartment.
Arshavin, then, turned and nodded at Salenko and Zurawski.
They all raised their crowbars and slipped inside.
They were quiet and cautious, listening for things like the sound of a television, music playing, water running, the pitter-patter of stokes on a laptop keyboard, a kettle boiling, the squeak of door handles turning or the creaking of floor boards being stepped on. The sounds of anybody inside. But they heard nothing at all. It was silent. And empty.
Arshavin gestured a hand signal to the two other men, telling them to check the doors on either side of the hallway while would go ahead and check what seemed to be the lounge.
They nodded their understanding. Zurawski ducked through the door on his right into the kitchen. And Salenko ducked through the door ahead on his left into Naomi's bedroom.
In the lounge, Arshavin saw the iPad sitting on the cushion of the white leather corner sofa, and a table by the sofa's far arm. He saw a copy of a fashion magazine was sitting on top and the brown manilla envelope sticking out beneath it. He walked over, scanning the room, and whipped the envelope out from underneath the magazine, which fell to the floor in a heap with the ferocity of his pull. He flicked his eyes along every inch of the envelope and looked at Naomi Hefter's name through its window, then drew the letter from the slot and read the details.
It was a final demand notice for a missed payment, the first payment due on a $134,697 loan from Michigan Banking Trust that had an APR rate of fourteen percent.
He took note of the amount and laid it down on the sofa and looked around the lounge, taking stalk of what else was there. There was nothing of particular note, just an LED TV on an expensive and heavy-looking mahogany sideboard, some standing lamps and a white shaggy silver-speckled rug. He moved on to the next room, stepping through the door on the left at the back of the lounge.
It was a bathroom. It was white and tiled. He saw a ceramic toilet, a matching sink and a built-in corner shower with glass sliding doors. Again, there was nothing of particular note. He ducked back out into the lounge and walked across the wooden floor, the outsoles of his heavy black boots crunching on the wood, and stepped through the other door on the right of the lounge opposite the bathroom.
It was a bedroom. It had the same jurassic stone wallpaper and mahogany wooden floor as the lounge. There was a double bed in the middle of the room. It had a thick plain white duvet cover with a cream velvet throw at the end, plump-looking white pillows and a mahogany headboard that rested by the back wall. There was a window on the left. Chocolate brown curtains lined either side. They were open. Tied back with matching ties. There was a mahogany dressing unit and matching chest of drawers on the right of the bed. Everything looked neat and tidy. Too neat and tidy. Not a thing out of place. It looked unused.
He went through the dressing unit, anyway, rummaging through the drawers, looking for anything Polanski could use. There was nothing of note. Just some extra bedding, a few candles and some sanitary supplies. He cursed in Russian and came away empty handed, made his way back through to her lounge, hearing shatter
ing and banging sounds coming from the other side of the wall.
In Naomi's kitchen, Zurawski saw the beach cabinets and the slate grey counters. He flicked his eyes over them, noticing the jelly-slicked knife, a crumby plate and a dirty latte glass sitting in the stainless steel sink. She had been there, for damn sure, and not too long ago, he thought and figured he would rummage around to see if there was anything of value he could find.
He focused on the cupboards. He opened the cupboard doors and looked inside them. But he found nothing but a white dinner set, plates stacked atop plates and bowls cradled into other bowls, a variety of clear drinking glasses: champagne flutes, wine glasses and tall and short glasses. Plus some grey and white china mugs with a variety of patterns. Spots, stripes and hoops. He shoved the crowbar in amongst them all and yanked them all out to a series of shattering bangs on the slate grey worktops and wooden floor.
Next, he checked the drawers, but found nothing but cutlery, dish cloths and oven gloves, and some household supplies like pens, matches and sandwich bags. He caught a glimpse of his beaten reflection along the blade of one of the knives sitting in the top drawer and thought back to last night. His face was a mess. It looked a bad as it felt. It made him angry. He ripped the drawers from the slots, twisting his wrists, tearing them off their runners. Everything fell out of them and scattered across the floor, falling onto the broken fragments of china and shards of glass.
After that, he untipped the bin. The rubbish came crashing out over the mahogany wooden floor. There wasn't that much. A few dirty, scrunched up sheets of white kitchen towel, some blackened crumbs from what appeared to be burnt toast and a few flakes of stale pastry that crumbled into dust on contact with the floor. A whole bar's worth of empty beer bottles and two empty wine bottles toppled out, chinking together. Some leftover lasagna that looked three days old was sucked to the sides of some of the beer bottles.
He flicked his malevolent eyes over the rubbish, making sure there was nothing of value among it. Satisfied there wasn't, he turned his attention to the refrigerator. He tore the door from its hinges and tossed it toward the sink. It bounced off the counter and landed on the heap of broken crockery and rubbish.
Then, he did the same with her toaster, microwave, kettle and expensive-looking black coffee machine. He lifted them like a psychopath, ripping the plugs from the sockets, and lobbed them against the refrigerator door, each appliance landing with a crashing thud and making a bigger and bigger dent in door.
Naomi's bedroom was palatial. The walls were papered, jurassic stone. And the floor was wooden, mahogany. There was a king size bed sitting side-on to the door. It had a thick wooden headboard sitting flush with the interior wall, flanked by two small mahogany bedside cabinets. They were three drawers high. The pillows looked plump and soft to the touch, like they would be a delight to sleep on. There were six of them, piled three high and in two stacks. Her duvet was equally divine. It looked thick and ruffled, as if it was maybe filled with goose feathers and down. And the cover was stylish. It was light grey with a pattern of leaves stitched by a thin silver thread. On the other side of the bed was a window and a chest of drawers.
At the foot of the bed, there was a row of doors. Two sliding, long and mirrored, and one wooden and white. Behind the mirrored sliding doors were two built-in closets and behind the white wooden door was a gleaming en-suite bathroom. Scented candles and reed diffusers scented with the smells of pomegranate, basil and neroli lined the window ledge. They made the room smell like a spa.
Salenko started with the closets. He whipped her jackets, tops and dresses from their hangers with the crowbar, tearing the fabric with its chiselled end, then pulled the boxes and crates from the shelves above them. He found nothing of note beside a collection of shoes, handbags and scarves vast enough she could've opened a boutique. He was thorough. He even looked inside the shoes and the handbags, opening every compartment, thinking people often hid valuables in obscure places, but he found nothing.
Next, he rummaged through the chest of drawers by the window, taking out her bras and pants and collection of health and beauty products like face wipes, moisturizers, makeup and facial cleansing solutions, as well as her deodorants and perfumes. He tossed them all aside, quickly, item-after-item, drawerful-after-drawerful, tossing them over his shoulder. Some landed softly on the duvet over her bed, others flew beyond it, coming to a halt with a thug against the wall or the door to the hall.
Finding nothing, he turned his attention to the beside cabinet on the left of the bed. The drawers were all jammed full with health and beauty and styling products. He pulled all the items out and swept the bases and sides of the empty drawers. Nothing.
He looped around the bottom of the bed and did the same with the cabinet on its right. Again, the top drawer was full of makeup and perfume. He swept it all aside and found nothing but the empty base of the drawer.
Next, he opened the middle drawer. He swept out the straggling makeup products that had overspilled from the top drawer and found something of intrigue. Beneath some neatly rolled up face cloths and cotton pads, there was a black leather document wallet.
He lifted it out and looked inside. It was full of documents. A passport. A driving license record. Bank statements. A credit card agreement. An insurance policy for a cell phone and another for a car. A loan agreement for a Peugeot RCZ. Another loan agreement for a business. A rental agreement for the apartment. A qualification in cosmetology issued by the Michigan Cosmetology Board. An old employment contract. And a cosmetology license issued by the Michigan Department of Licensing and Regulatory Affairs.
He flicked through them all, then tossed the wallet aside. Beneath the folder of documents was a black ring bound folder. He lifted it out and opened it up.
It was photo album.
He briefly flicked his way through the pictures. It was filled with shots of different hair styles and makeup designs. He tossed it aside and opened the last drawer.
It was stuffed with sentimental heirlooms like photos of Naomi as a child alongside what appeared to be her sister, her parents and grandparents in a variety of poses. They were huddled around sofas in various lounges and sitting around tables in various dining rooms. There were pictures of birthday cakes and gifts and Christmas trees and presents. Even a few of what seemed to a family dog, a wrinkled, old-looking black labrador. Each photo was in an individual plastic pouch and had a time and date handwritten in pencil in neat handwriting on the back.
He went through them until he reached the last one in the drawer. It was a photograph of a child. A little baby boy. He was wrapped up in a white wooly shawl. He looked like he was maybe only an hour old. His skin appeared soft and red and wet. He had fair thin hair. It, too, was wet and swept over to the left of his head. His cheeks were chubby with puppy fat and he looked to have been crying, his little toothless mouth was open and his eyes were closed shut.
Salenko turned the photograph over. There was the same handwritten note on the back. It said: Josh Hefter. Born April 7th, 2009. He flicked it back over and looked at the photograph, again, his mouth open as he stared at it. A dark reality dawned in his mind. She has a son. He removed the photograph from its plastic pouch. It felt crisp and glossy, just like new. He looked at the caption of the boy and grinned, knowing he had found something of immense value.
Now, back through in the lounge, Arshavin asked the others what was going on and whether they had found anything. "Hey, what's going on? You boys got her? You find anything?" he called.
Zurawski stepped out of the kitchen, the stray pieces of glass and china and wood that had fanned out across the kitchen floor shattering and splintering under his feet. He shook his head. "No. Ain't nothing in here."
Salenko, then, stepped out of her bedroom carrying the photograph of the boy in his hand. "No. But I got something, here," he said and held up the photograph for both men to see, then read what it said on the back. "Josh Hefter. Born April seventh two thousand and nine.
"
Arshavin stepped closer and took it from his hand. He flicked his eyes across the length and breadth of the photograph, then turned it over and glanced at the back. It said exactly what Salenko had just told him.
He looked up at him. "Where did you find this?"
"It was in the bottom drawer of her bedside cabinet. Below a drawer of documents. In beside a collection of family heirlooms, among a bundle of photographs."
Arshavin thought about it a beat. "What kind of documents?"
Salenko shrugged. "Stuff like bank statements, old employment records, insurance policies, some old-looking application forms for stuff like passports and a driving licence. And a hair styling qualification."
"Was there a death certificate?"
Salenko shook his head. "No. I don’t recall seeing anything like that."
Arshavin nodded. "Which means this boy must still be alive," he said and grinned. He looked around the apartment. There were no signs of a young boy's presence. No toys or clothes or anything that would confirm he lived there. "So, where is he?"
Salenko shrugged.
"Maybe he lives with his father?" Zurawski said.
"Or maybe she gave him away," Arshavin countered. "Either way, Mr. Polanski will definitely want to know about this."
He drew a black iPhone from his pocket and opened his contacts app, selected Polanski from the list and pressed the icon to make a call.
SEVENTEEN
After Beck ended the call, Naomi sat in a dazed silence. Her mind raced. She thought the worst. Shit. What if he's right? What if they're out there? What if they're looking for me? Oh, fuck. What do I do? Shit. Then, she remembered what he had said and she called her sister.
The line rang five times before she answered, Naomi's heart beating faster and faster with each passing ring. Naomi never told her what had happened, thinking it would just have made things worse. Instead, she just told her that she had gotten into a tight spot with some real seedy people and said that she thought it would be best if she and her husband went away for a few days, until things blew over.
Easy Money Page 14